The Dirrium nobility act : Midnight
The Grand Gala of the Three Houses was supposed to be a show of unity. Instead, it was a funeral for an era.
The air in the ballroom was thick with the scent of lilies and cold sweat. Count Valerius and Duke Montclair sat at opposite ends of the high table, their supporters clustered like warring camps. Between them sat the empty throne of the King—a King who, unbeknownst to them, had already been replaced by Leornars's silver-tongued illusions in other provinces.
Mishima stood by the buffet, her hand trembling as she held a glass of wine. She looked up at the clock. Midnight.
"The trigger is set," a voice whispered in her mind. It was Althelia, speaking through the link Leornars had established. "Drop the catalyst, Viscountess."
Mishima took a deep breath. She "tripped" near Count Sebastian, spilling her dark wine across his white silk waistcoat. As he stood up with a snarl, she gasped, reaching out to "clean" him—and in the process, a heavy, ornate signet ring tumbled from her sleeve and clattered onto the floor.
It was the Private Seal of Duke Montclair. The one used for high-treason documents and secret military orders.
The room went silent. Sebastian snatched the ring from the floor, his eyes bulging. "Montclair... why does the Viscountess have your shadow-seal? What 'orders' were you giving her regarding my estates?"
"I didn't give her anything!" Montclair roared, standing up so fast his chair toppled. "That seal was stolen from my vault three nights ago!"
"Stolen? Or planted?" Sebastian screamed. He reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of papers—the forged "audit" Mishima had shown him earlier. "I have the proof! You've been selling our Deep-Iron to Avangard to fund a coup!"
"You're the one who's been auditing my family like a common thief!" Montclair countered, drawing his ceremonial rapier.
The spark hit the powder.
The ballroom erupted. It wasn't a duel; it was a riot. The guards, confused and already bribed by Stacian's "Pollium-enhanced" silver, didn't know who to protect. They began striking at whoever was closest.
Mishima backed away into the shadows, watching the men she had feared for decades tear each other's reputations—and then their throats—apart.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom slammed shut. The music stopped. The torches flickered and died, replaced by a cold, haunting violet luminescence.
"Enough."
The word wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a falling mountain. The fighting stopped. The nobles turned, gasping for air, to see a figure standing on the balcony above the throne.
Leornars.
He wasn't wearing his simple vest anymore. He wore a coat of obsidian-threaded silk, and in his hand, he held a massive, glowing ledger. Beside him, Stacian stood with her silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight, her hand resting on a blade made of pure energy.
"Lord Leornars!" Sebastian cried, clutching a wound in his arm. "Arrest Montclair! He has betrayed the Crown!"
"No! Sebastian is the traitor!" Montclair spat.
Leornars didn't look at either of them. He opened the ledger.
"Count Sebastian," Leornars began, his voice echoing in the dead silence. "Your banks are insolvent. I bought your debt three hours ago from the Northern Syndicate. You own nothing. Not even the clothes you bleed into."
Sebastian turned gray. "You... you what?"
"Duke Montclair," Leornars continued, his gaze shifting. "Your 'private militia' has been disbanded. I informed them their pay was being withheld due to your 'treason.' They have already surrendered their arms to my servants."
Leornars stepped off the balcony, walking down the air as if it were a flight of invisible stairs. He landed softly on the blood-stained carpet.
"This kingdom is out of balance," Leornars said, walking toward the throne. "The math of your greed has finally reached zero. You have proven that the nobility is a rot that consumes its own host."
"You can't do this!" a minor noble screamed, lunging at Leornars with a dagger.
Stacian didn't even move her feet. A silver flash blurred the air, and the noble's hand—still clutching the dagger—thudded to the floor. The man fell, screaming, but Leornars didn't even blink.
"The audit is closed," Leornars declared. He sat on the throne, leaning back with a casual, terrifying grace. "From this moment, the High Council is abolished. The lands of Sebastian, Montclair, and Solon are hereby annexed by the Office of the Grand Administrator."
"On what authority?" Montclair gasped, leaning on his sword.
Leornars held up a single piece of parchment. It was the decree signed by the "King" (Leornars's own shadow) before his "disappearance."
"The authority of a dying age giving way to a new one," Leornars said. He looked at Mishima, who was shivering in the corner. "Viscountess. Stand beside me."
She crawled toward him, the ultimate puppet, taking her place at the foot of his throne.
"The rest of you," Leornars said, looking at the broken nobility. "You are now employees of the state. You will work to pay back the millions you stole from the people. Or," he glanced at Zhyelena, who appeared behind the Duke with a jagged blade, "you can opt for a permanent audit."
The nobles fell to their knees. Not out of loyalty, but out of the sheer, crushing weight of a man who had calculated their doom months before they even met him.
Leornars picked up a glass of wine from the table, untouched by the fray. He took a sip, then looked at the reader—at the world he had just dismantled.
"It's amazing how easy it is to move a mountain," he mused to Stacian, "once you've convinced every stone that the others are trying to crush it."